Chapter One- Stolen I tried to leave the house as silently as possible, although I didn’t need to. However, I still caught the attention of my aunt Estelle, who had been my guardian for two months now.

October 10, 1996 (Peter Gilstrap / Phoenix New Times) - It takes a certain brand of optimism and foresight to make a small-market concept work, a certain drive and, of course, the essential ability to recognize a need and fill it. Before a savvy, upward mover even begins to address such concepts as outsourcing, retrenchment and severe lower-pricing to shed high-cost capacity, he must be able to pick the right product at the right moment. Such a man is Rod Jakubik. His product is fangs.

With the sun setting behind him, Vlad slowly crept up the walkway towards the Inn, something he hadn't done for quite some time. He paused at the doorway, for he thought he heard the sounds of laughter coming from within its walls; that was impossible, of course -- no souls had entered the Inn since he closed it a couple of years ago.

With little effort, he removed the planks that had been boarded up over the doorway, and pulled a rusty old key out from within his cloak. With a scream, the lock slowly turned and clicked, and he pushed open the door.

With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight, Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before him, bathed in light and pulsating with life.